Friday Poetry: "Matchstick Angels"

Friday at last! It's been such an off week for me, and I've had to drag myself through it.

I do need your feedback on this piece, though, because I've been tweaking it for the past four hours and at this point I have no idea what constitutes good poetry anymore. (It is also one in the morning, so that may or may not be part of the issue.) This happens to be the first poem I've written in about two weeks, so my skills may be slightly rusty—but as always, I would love to hear your suggestions & thoughts.

Enjoy, everyone. I'll see you on Monday! x

Matchstick Angels

old heartache, you rise up out of the echoes.
I know you. I’ve memorised your skyscraper eyes,
your patchwork sins. sometimes stars die.
sometimes first loves do, too. darling, you and I,
we lost ourselves in the wildfire – but
here you are again and I’m thinking there might be
something left for us in the ashes.

it’s a familiar melody: police sirens screaming
like drunken love songs, and you and I are
dancing in the arms of fallen angels. feel the
comets slipping like matches through the cracks,
and darling, we’re scavenging once more.
I’m relearning the maps across your fingers,
the dictionaries in your lungs,
the ring-ring bicycle bell of I love you
and I hate you
and where did we go wrong?

perhaps our poetry has changed, but don’t you think
the graveyards could miss a few angels tonight?

we both have wandering hearts, darling, but
my cinders keep tracing a path back to a boy who
smells like smoke and tastes like the home I thought
had burned down. old heartbreak, old heartache –
the matches. the fire. the ashes. the ring-ring bicycle bell
of tying yourself to a burning stake.

second chances are few and far between, but
I think I know when it’s time to stop running.

here you are again, darling, and
we are not dictionaries or stars or bicycles or love songs,
but sinners and saints, whole and human and
something so much bigger than the ashes we left behind.